Dirty Little
Secrets
Novels/Book Trailers
The
Devil Can Wait
Silenced Cry
Stephens Talks About the Series
Stephens Interrogated
The Press Room
Media Kit
A short story by Marta Stephens
Author of the Sam Harper Crime Mystery Series
© Marta Stephens 2009 all rights reserved
Sam Harper turned left off Willow Boulevard into a
winding private road he had driven past all his life but never entered.
In the distance, the McGuire mansion, a sprawling two-story home, stood
like a limestone monument to the family’s ego. Its stately structure and
steep-angled roof was nestled against a backdrop of tall, lanky pines.
Harper imagined a flawlessly, well-groomed lawn would grace the property
at the first sign of spring. For now though, the tree branches were
heavy from last night’s snowfall. Up ahead, the usual gathering of city
cars were parked on the circle drive in front of the home’s entrance.
Among them was the van driven by the head of forensics, Carter Graves.
The medical examiner’s vehicle assigned to Jack Fowler was situated
immediately behind the van. Inside the home, uniformed officer Jason
Culp was the first to greet Harper as he walked through the door.
“This way, Detective.”
Harper swept a glance around the foyer. Polished hardwood floors and
thick Persian rugs ran the length of the vast open space. A massive
staircase curved upward along the right side of the room near a wall
flanked with multi-paned windows from the base of the staircase to the
vaulted ceiling.
Voices seeped into the hallway from behind a set of closed double doors
situated to Harper’s immediate left.
Three feet away, the dutiful officer Culp was directing him to go in the
opposite direction. "Detective? The body’s upstairs.”
Three generations of McGuires had forged the city of Chandler,
Massachusetts into an industrial Mecca at the turn of the century. On
their way to success, they drove every viable competitor and a Fortune
500 company or two out of town. They secured their wealth and
brainwashed every man, woman, and child into thinking Chandler would
fall to ruins without them. Of course, they were wrong. After the family
moved the business out West, Chandler not only survived, it flourished.
But in everyone’s eyes, the McGuires continued to reign supreme. Harper
wasn’t as surprised to receive today’s phone call as he was that a
murder had taken this long to touch the lives of the McGuires. He
unbuttoned his overcoat and asked: “What do we have?”
“Upstairs, first door to the right,” Culp said, gesturing with a nod in
that direction. “It’s Catherine McGuire.”
“Old lady McGuire? She’s what? In her eighties?”
“Eighty-three. The daughter--”
“Evelyn Gunter?”
“That’s the one,” Culp said, “claims she called the station as soon as
she found her. Forensics and the doc are up in her room right now.”
“Who else is here from downtown?”
“My partner’s questioning the family in there.” He pointed to the
doorway that had intrigued Harper a second before. “Lorenzo and Wade are
standing by and waiting for orders.”
Harper pulled on a pair of latex gloves and made a move toward the
stairs, but the look of consternation on Culp’s face made him stop.
“What?”
The officer’s glance made a wide upward sweep. “Nothing like any
homicide I’ve ever seen.”
“What do you mean?”
“The old lady died in her sleep. I’m no genius, but the sheets aren’t
even wrinkled.”
“And you know this how?”
“I saw her with my own two eyes, Detective. My partner and I were the
first to arrive. Not a mark on her—nothing out of place. Doesn’t feel
right.”
“You think someone tampered with the scene?” Harper asked.
“Not according to them.” Again Culp gestured toward the door, “and no
one was in the house who shouldn’t have been here—I checked.”
“For instance?”
“Seems Mrs. McGuire’s health was failing so the son and daughter arrived
on Tuesday.”
“Three days ago.”
“Yeah, something like that.
“Is that it?”
“No, the housekeeper has a room on the first floor off the kitchen,” he
said, thumbing over his shoulder, “and then there’s Mrs. McGuire’s
assistant. Her room is upstairs too.”
Harper leaned an ear toward the doors leading into the great room and
listened to the loud, muffled voices. “Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.”
* * *
Carter was taking particular interest in the glass of water and the sizeable collection of medication bottles he found on Mrs. McGuire’s nightstand. Jack was standing over the body. He pushed his reading glasses to the top of his head, wrinkled his nose and pursed his lips. He didn’t bother to look up when Harper entered the room.
“False alarm?” Harper asked.
“Not if the family has anything to say about it,” Jack said.
“You don’t sound convinced.”
Jack Fowler shrugged a shoulder without hiding the look of disgust that washed over his face.
“Your word is the only one that counts. Remember?”
“Yeah ... so I hear.”
The hesitation in Jack’s tone spelled nothing but trouble in Harper’s mind. He’d been down this same road with the ME more than once. It meant long hours of work with no guarantees they’d find the killer. Catherine McGuire was laying face up on the bed. Beneath the full-length pink nightgown was a frail body. In life she’d been a five foot tall, vivacious woman and the power behind the McGuire fortune. Now her pale boney arms and hands were limp at her sides. The gold and red quilted spread beneath her barely registered the slightness of her weight. Officer Culp’s observation knocked a little louder in Harper’s head. As he studied the tranquil expression on her face and the neatness of her room he had to admit that neither jibed with the usual murder scene.
“Do we have a case or not?”
“No way to tell without an autopsy,” Jack said.
"And you'll push this one to the top of your list, right?"
"Not going to do one."
“What are you saying?” In all the years Harper had worked with Jack, he’d never once seen the ME sweat in the middle of January. "Answer me. What's the problem?"
“My hands are tied, that's what. We’re dealing with the McGuires, Harp.” Jack walked around the bed to Harper’s side and lowered his voice. “They’re the closest thing this city has to goddamn royalty.”
“Easy, Doc. The walls might hear.”
“Hell, you don’t tell the McGuires what to do, least of all when the corpse is one of their own.”
“You’re dancing around the May Pole,” Harper said. “Spit it out.”
“According to Mrs. McGuire’s appointed guardian—her assistant, she left explicit instructions in her will—no autopsy. From the collection of meds we found on the nightstand, she wasn’t opposed to medical attention, but she didn’t like doctors poking around or getting stuck with needles. Certainly didn’t want anything to do with getting cut up—as if she’d know the difference now.”
“She obviously hadn't planned on anyone pulling the plug ahead of time. Don't see why you're worried. Wills can be contested, especially if there's reason to suspect she’s been murdered. Give me something to take to a judge and we’ll—”
“Impossible.” A frown rippled across Jack’s brow. “If she was murdered, the evidence is inside. I’d have to examine the organs and that’s not going to happen if I can’t take the body.”
“Let me get this straight,” Harper said. “The family reported her death as a murder right?”
“Yeah.”
“Doesn't seem to be any evidence of foul play.”
“Right, and based on the apparent lack of it, I can’t rule her death a homicide,” Jack said.
“Then what do they know that you and I don't? Are you really going to let a little thing like a will stand in your way? Personally, I’d be more worried about what the living will do to you than the dead.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Come on, Jack. This city’s leading family is yelling murder downstairs. You’re not really thinking of disappointing them, are you?”
Jack Fowler didn’t respond.
“Rational people don’t call the cops without a reason. Last will and testament or not, they’re going to expect me to investigate her death and I can’t do it without you giving the word.”
“Odd choice of words, Harp—rational. We’ve worked together what, six, seven years? How many times have we seen this type of thing before? You know being rational and levelheaded never enters the equation when there’s money involved. If there was an ounce of civility in her heirs, her death just wiped it clean away and replaced it with greed and suspicion. Hell, if they’re not accusing one another right now, it’s because they’re trying to get their stories straight and cover their tracks.”
“All the more reason to talk to a judge. But let’s say you’re right, then why report it as murder? All they needed to do was force their mother’s doctor to issue the death certificate stating she died of natural causes.” Harper slipped off his coat and glanced at the corpse again. “They could have split the dough after the wake before anyone questioned them. I mean, look at her. Who would have known?” Harper hooked a finger beneath the collar of his coat, flung it over a shoulder, and turned to leave.
“Where’re you going?” Jack asked.
“Where do you think? Into the lion’s den to find the killer.”
* * *
Jack’s right. Harper thought,
as he reached for the knobs on the double doors to the great room. Death
had a way of bringing out the cut-throats in families. There was always
at least one person convinced he’d been screwed, ignored as a child and
who drummed up a host of old baggage to get his just reward—revenge on
the unsuspecting.
His thoughts flashed to his mother’s untimely death six years before and
the hit and run driver who was never apprehended. His younger brother,
Paul, never forgave the two homicide detectives in the family, he and
their father Walt, for failing to find the guilty. Harper shoved the
unwelcomed memories back, deep into the distant crevice from which they
came, but that old familiar sting was as relentless as ever. He cursed
under his breath at his inability to let go of his anger or to wipe his
father’s pain from his memory. “Damn it,” he said under his breath and
heaved open the doors.
The discussion he heard moments before immediately ceased—heads jerked
up as he stepped into the room. He recognized the McGuire siblings from
years of newspaper photographs. Both had their mother’s eyes and their
father’s distinctive Roman-shaped nose. But the brother and sister had
developed their own wicked tongues putting the heat that spewed out from
the roaring flames in the hearth to shame.
Four sets of probing, dry eyes scrutinized Harper’s moves as the
uniformed officer handed him a slip of paper. It contained the names of
those present and a sentence or two each had offered up as the utmost
truth.
“Well, it’s about damn time.” The man who rose to his feet and took a
step too close to Harper was Clinton McGuire, a man in fifties sporting
an expensive tan and touch of gray along the temples. “Can we just move
on?”
“Have a seat, Mr. McGuire,” Harper said as he finished reading the note.
“We demand answers.” Clinton shoved his hands into his pockets and
leaned forward as if to make a point. “Now!”
Harper ignored the man’s outburst and continued to read through the
officer’s scribbles. He glanced up at the patrolman and gave him a nod.
“Thanks, I’ll take it from here.”
“We’ve been sequestered in this damned room for over two hours. I want—”
“I understand Mr. McGuire. You have my deepest condolences. Now, would
you please take a seat?”
“Yes, Clint. Shut the hell up and sit down.” Evelyn Gunter raised a
crystal tumbler to her lips and took a sip of what Harper knew to be
fine distilled liquor. He watched her squirm a bit in the wingback chair
near the fire and take a deep breath. Mrs. Gunter was impeccably groomed
from her over-sprayed hair down to her Gucci slippers. A well-manicured
hand held on to the glass while the other gripped the arm of the chair a
little too tight.
“Evelyn Gunter?”
“Yes. Of course, who else would I be? For what it’s worth, that’s Mr.
Gunter,” she said, pointing to the man on the couch. “Jesus, Vic, sit up
and act as if you have some sense for a change.”
Vic’s elbows were resting on his knees; his posture made it clear that
seconds before his head had been buried in the cup of his hands. Harper
took note of the bloodshot eyes and the rumpled shirt and hair and
tucked those facts in the back of his mind.
The slender woman on the other end of the couch who was coiling her
finger around the silk printed scarf hanging from her neck seemed
neither drunk nor vile at the moment.
“I’m Sylvia,” she said. “Just thought I’d mention it in case you’re
interested. I’m with him.” She nodded toward Clinton and rolled her
eyes. “But trust me, I’m nobody around here.”
“Wonderful, Sylvia dear. Now that we know who the hell we are, can we
please get to the bottom of things?” Clinton paused for a moment.
“Detective?”
That was the first thing Harper had heard thus far that made any sense.
“Let’s start with you Mrs. Gunter. I understand you found your mother.”
“Yes, that’s right. I—”
“She’s embellishing the truth again, Detective. Eve didn’t go in to
mother’s room until after Nelly cut loose with a blood-curdling scream,”
Clinton said, curling his lip.
“Who’s Nelly?”
“Why the ... I’ve checked on mother every morning since we arrived long
before you ever woke from your booze-induced slumber.” The look in
Evelyn’s eyes could have burned a hole through Clinton’s heart like a
red-hot poker.
“Hell, she was still alive in the morning.”
“Who is Nelly?” Harper asked again.
Evelyn and Clinton continued to argue. Vic took a few unsteady steps to
the bar at the other side of the room and poured himself a straight shot
of bourbon. Sylvia pursed her lips and persistently played with her
scarf, rolling it up and down then letting it slip through her fingers.
“Enough!” Harper yelled. “Everyone sit down and keep your mouths shut
until I give you permission to speak.” Harper looked them square in the
eyes. “Bicker all you want, but not on my time. Do I make myself clear?”
With their incessant backbiting momentarily quashed, he broke the
silence, “You, Mr. McGuire. Who is Nelly?”
“The housekeeper, Nelly Blount. She’s been with the family for years.
She’s the one who found mother.”
“And when was that?”
“Just after lunch.”
Amazingly, the others nodded in agreement about the time. Harper glanced
at his watch. It was ten of two which figured right since he had been
the last to arrive at the scene. Harper was almost afraid to push his
luck, but the next logical question needed to be asked. “And what makes
you think your mother was murdered?”
“Allison Pike. A cold, self-serving extortionist.” Evelyn narrowed her
eyes as words and spittle shot from her lips.
A crease rippled across Clinton’s brow and for the first time, he seemed
to be in a pensive state of mind. “Mother hired Alli about a year ago as
an assistant to help keep track of her appointments, take her places,
run errands, that sort of thing.”
“She had us for chrissakes, mother didn’t need her.” Evelyn mumbled the
words between gulps of booze. “Oh yes, Alli seemed sweet enough at
first, but that didn’t last.”
“How so?”
“She was subtle, I’ll give her that,” Evelyn said. “Alli gushed at every
word mother said and lavished her with attention. Mother certainly loved
getting attention.”
“Yes.” Clinton leaned back in his seat and crossed his left foot over
his knee. “She seemed so efficient, we never questioned her motives at
first. It was almost a relief that someone was taking care of things. I
mean … mother was sharp and had never been shy about dismissing an
unworthy employee so …”
Evelyn nodded in complete agreement with her brother then added: “But
then it got so that Mother quit returning our calls. We made countless
trips into Chandler over the past several months to see her. Recently,
there was always an excuse as to why we couldn’t—everything from mother
taking a nap to her being in the tub.”
“Befriending an elderly person isn’t a crime though,” Harper said.
“Alli didn’t just befriend our mother,” Clinton said, “she formed a
wedge between us.”
“You want to know what the real stinky beef is all about?” Vic slurred
his words. “The old lady changed her damned will. Cut these two
vultures, and us,” he flung a finger at Sylvia then poked himself in the
chest, “right out.”
“He’s right,” Sylvia said. “With one bitchy stroke of a pen she
disinherited us and made Alli her guardian. The woman even insisted on
dispensing mother’s medication and overseeing the food preparation. Can
you believe it? After kissing up to the old bag all these years she
cozies up to a complete stranger. What a hideous slap on the face.”
Evelyn raised a slender finger to her eye and dabbed the first tear
Harper had seen since entering the McGuire mansion. The conduct he
witnessed in the past twenty minutes validated Jack’s comment about
money, death and greed. What else had Jack said about the McGuires?
Oh yeah, royalty—my ass, he thought. Harper had a good picture of
how things were, but even if these four’s suspicions were right, all the
hatred in the world didn’t make it so or answer the why or how.
“Money is no object, Detective,” Clinton said. “Do what you must to
convict her.”
“That could be construed as a bribe, Mr. McGuire. So I’ll just pretend I
didn’t hear it. But I wouldn’t be too concerned if I were you. If your
mother was murdered, I’ll know and whoever did it won’t be able to shake
me off.” Harper let them hang on to his words as he started for the door
then turned. “One last question. Had your mother always been opposed to
autopsies?”
Each of the four searched the other three’s faces.
“What an incredibly strange thing to ask,” Evelyn said, raising the
glass to her lips and draining its content. “Mother never mentioned it,
why?”
* * *
The brass nameplate permanently attached to the
brick façade of the Stanley building read, “Jacob D. Stanley, Attorney
At Law.” Harper pulled open the door, unbuttoned his overcoat, and
instantly felt his steps sink into the thick pile of burgundy carpeting.
Except for the middle-aged guy waiting in the pinstriped suit with his
nose in the New York Times, the lobby was empty of clients. Overstuffed
chairs and lush tropical plants that didn’t belong in Massachusetts in
January or any other time of the year, lined the path that led directly
to the knockout redhead sitting behind the desk.
She glanced up from her filing and offered a practiced smile, but her
eyes were immediately drawn to the badge secured to Harper’s belt. The
blunt cut of her hair fell just at the shoulders, the blue of her eyes
matched her blouse, and looking down from his vantage point of six feet
up and standing well over her head, the bit of visible cleavage was a
distraction he didn’t need at the moment. Harper was trained to hone in
on the details, but he wondered what the hell he was thinking. Now she
was looking him straight in the eyes.
“Mr. Stanley is expecting me—Sam Harper, homicide.”
“Have a seat, Detective. I’ll let him know you’re here.” A take-me-home
smile eased across her lips as she disappeared down the hall.
* * *
“Yes, I appreciate your predicament.” Jacob Stanley
polished his reading glasses then placed them back on the bridge of his
nose. “But the attorney/client privilege doesn’t end when the client
passes. You know that.”
“Yes, I do, but—”
“It continues on in perpetuity. I can tell you this, Mrs. McGuire was of
sound mind when she changed her will.”
“Her family doesn’t agree. Any idea why she didn’t let them in on it?”
Harper asked.
“I assume you’ve had the pleasure of meeting them, right?” Stanley
paused for a moment. “Yes, of course you have. Regardless of what you’ve
heard about Catherine McGuire, she had a soft spot for her children, the
irony is, they never appreciated it.”
“So what was her motive?”
“You need to understand that my job was never to persuade Catherine to
do anything she hadn’t already set her mind to. I was here to advise her
on the legality of her actions and the ramifications thereof, not meddle
in her private life. Her personal affairs were off limits.”
“You have to admit, the whole thing seems strange,” Harper said.
“Maybe to the average person it does, but there was nothing routine
about Catherine McGuire. Perhaps she faced her own mortality and didn’t
like what she saw. I do think she felt alone much of the time.”
“Is that when she hired Allison Pike?”
Stanley thumbed through a few pages in Mrs. McGuire’s file then stopped
and flipped back and forth between two pieces of paper. “Ms. Pike was
employed last year on December 27. Catherine changed her will eight
months later—hardly a hasty decision.”
“What about Pike’s background? Anything suspicious?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” Stanley signaled Harper to wait while he picked
up his phone. “Beka, could you come in a minute?”
Within seconds, the redheaded beauty walked in, took three sheets of
paper from Stanley’s hand and left the room. She returned minutes later
with a set of copies.
“Here,” Stanley said. “Maybe that will help clear up some of your
questions.”
Harper studied the list of references Allison Pike had submitted to her
former employer then whistled at the salary noted at the bottom of the
page. “Can’t say I blame the McGuires for being upset. A hundred grand a
year is a chunk of change for driving an old woman around and keeping
her calendar. Pike had a sweet deal going, why would the family suspect
her of wanting to stop the gravy train?”
“I’m sure it’s a ploy to contest the will. Like I said, Detective, no
one forced Catherine McGuire’s hand. She came to see me of her own free
will with a clear mind and conscience. I’m sure Ms. Pike will be glad to
fill you in on anything else you need to know. Her phone and address are
at the bottom of the second page.”
“Thanks.” Harper folded the pages lengthwise then handed the attorney
his business card. “If you think of anything else.”
“I will.” Jacob Stanley paused for a moment then frowned. “Have you ever
missed a chance to do something and later regretted it?”
“Yeah, once or twice. Why?”
Stanley removed his reading glasses again and placed them on top of his desk. “I was out of town on business this week when my secretary called to say that Catherine had phoned twice on Monday to speak with me—wouldn’t leave a message—Catherine never would. Anyway, I was having a heck of a time with cell phone connections and assumed whatever Catherine wanted could wait a couple of days until I got back. It didn’t quite work out the way I had planned. Haunting, wouldn’t you say?”
* * *
The information Harper received from attorney Jacob
Stanley two days before led him to the front door of a 1930s bungalow on
west 43rd. When he knocked, he expected to meet a middle-aged spinster
with orthopedic shoes on her feet and a hard look in her eyes. Instead,
Allison Pike stood in the threshold dressed in white close-fitting
slacks, a red cardigan sweater, and waves of flowing dark hair swept
over one shoulder.
She smiled and ushered him into the sitting room where the mellow sound
of Etta James drifted through the air. He hadn’t intended to agree to
coffee, but the temperature outside was ten below and he couldn’t say no
to the warmth emitted from crackling log in the fireplace.
Allison brought in a tray with a carafe, two mugs and the usual
condiments. She did the pouring and left him to fix his own. She grabbed
one of several throws and curled up in the overstuffed loveseat across
from his. Harper noticed the zest in her style; every move triggered a
spark. There was no hesitation in her voice, no concern in her eyes—not
even when Harper informed her of the McGuires’ accusations.
“I can’t say that I’m surprised,” she said. “They were against
Catherine’s decision to hire me from the beginning.”
“Tell me about it. Start with how you two met.”
“A painter friend of mine had his oils featured in a gallery downtown
during the spring arts festival. Catherine and I were drawn to the same
painting. That one,” she said, pointing to a large landscape rendition
hanging on the opposite wall. “I’m a nut about impressionist style,
aren’t you?”
Harper took a drink of his coffee while he mulled around the abrupt
redirection and chose to ignore it. “Then what?”
“We developed a friendship. Catherine often invited me out to her home.
What began as the occasional visit quickly became weekly chats.
Sometimes after dinner, we’d talk for hours. Next thing I knew, she had
the housekeeper prepare a room for me so I could stay overnight.” Alli
brushed back a strand of hair from her eyes and studied Harper’s face as
if waiting for his immediate reaction.
“Did the family object at that point?” he asked.
“I’m not sure if they were even aware of our friendship. That’s the
point, Detective. They never called on her except to ask for money so
they didn't know what was going on in her life. Trust me, none of this
was planned. In spite of having a family and wealth she didn’t have what
she needed most, love—a sense of belonging.” She paused for a moment.
“She called me her guardian angle. The true is, I’m the one who was
saved.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s personal and I’d rather not go down that road, but suffice to say
that she was lonely and I needed a sense of belonging too.”
Allison’s words echoed the same sentiment Jacob Stanley expressed in
their meeting on Wednesday, but just like two wrongs don’t make a right,
neither did the word of a lawyer and the sole beneficiary of the McGuire
fortune equal the truth. “I understand you were hired last year on
December 27, is that correct?”
“Yes, I think that’s right.”
“You two met in the spring and what, eight, nine months later she hired
you as her personal assistance? What happened that December?”
“They left her alone.” Allison raised a slender hand to her lips then
turned toward the fire that had now engulfed the massive log in the
hearth. “Those vile, ungrateful … if it hadn’t been for me, she would
have been alone over the holidays.” She wiped a tear from her eye and
slipped into an uneasy silence.
“Ms. Pike?”
She looked up, tears glistened in her eyes. “That set the stage for what
happened next.”
“Go on.”
“A few months later she called to say that she needed to see her lawyer
and wanted me to drive her to his office. That’s when I found out she
had been discussing a change in her will. The meeting was simply for the
purpose to sign papers. The last thing I expected was that she made me
her guardian.”
“You could have backed out.”
“Not likely. No one ever backed out of a Catherine McGuire order.”
“Is that what it was? An order?”
“It felt like it.”
The flair of confidence Harper saw in her a moment before vanished. She
threw back her head and closed her eyes as if the question had awakened
an unpleasant memory.
“So your duties were more that of a caretaker; you dispensed her
medication, took charge of her meals—”
“She insisted.”
“Managed her appointments too?”
“That’s right.”
“Jacob Stanley said he missed a couple of calls from Mrs. McGuire the
day before she died. What was that all about?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You just said it was your job to keep track of her appointments.”
“Not all of them. She was a tyrant in that respect. You wouldn’t
understand.”
“Try me. She paid you a hundred grand. Why didn’t you know?”
“I didn’t need the money,” she said, placing her half-empty mug on the
tray, “but I could use a drink. Care for one?”
The sudden change in her tone didn’t escape him. Harper told her he’d
pass on the drink then rose to his feet. While she tinkered around in
the kitchen, he examined the collection of books on the nearby shelf.
Allison Pike’s tastes varied from the literary classics of Mary Shelley
and Earnest Hemmingway to modern fan fiction, history, and travel. Then
one book among several caught his attention. He was thumbing through 200
pages that listed a detailed assortment of poisons, their sources, and
their affects on the human body when Allison walked back into the room
with a glass of wine.
“Interesting,” he said.
“I also have books on psychology, military strategies, religions of the
world, emergency first aid, and the history of rock and roll.” She took
a sip then a few more steps until she was inches away. “My interests are
varied. What’s your passion?”
He waited to give her an answer, not because he needed to think twice,
but because one good tease deserved another.
“Justice, Ms. Pike, and the terms of Catherine McGuire’s will. Have a
seat.”
* * *
The far end of the dimly lit hallway
was barely visible from the elevator. Harper knew the sign above the
last door to the right pointed the way into the city morgue. He also
knew what to expect on the other side. The chill in the air would be as
cold as the look of the stainless steel surfaces that dominated the
autopsy room. It would permeate his clothing keeping them cool to the
touch moments after leaving the place. White tiled walls shimmered under
the bright florescent lights. The spotless floor, a large suspended
scale, and three polished stainless steel tables, situated in the center
of the room, were as expected as the smell of disinfectant that masked
the stench of death.
“I came over as soon as I got your page,” Harper said. “What’s up?”
“Nice work letting the McGuires in on their mother’s final wishes. Come
on, over here.” Jack Fowler crossed the room and pulled out one of the
middle drawers in a morgue refrigerator. “The authorization for the
autopsy came through a couple of hours ago. I was just getting ready to
start on her. Want to watch?”
Harper cocked his head to one side and glanced down at the late
Catherine McGuire. Her flesh looked pasty white under the florescent
light; her lips were drained of color. “I’ll trust you on this one. Have
a couple of other things to check on this morning.”
“So what was Allison Pike’s story?” Jack positioned the body onto a
gurney and pushed it into the autopsy room.
“Same as the others. She’s a victim of circumstances. You know the old,
I-was-just-trying-to-help story. Do me a favor.”
“If I can.”
“Check for poison in her system.”
“Anything in particular?”
“Just a hunch right now.”
“And if I don’t find anything?”
“We can say we tried and move on.”
* * *
Harper left the medical examiner to
his pre-autopsy tasks of measuring and weighing the body then taking the
usual photographs. The engine of his Jeep Commander fired up on the
first try, but the plummeting temperatures gave him reason to give the
motor a moment to warm again. He watched the wipers shove the snow from
side to side and thought of the stinging accusations he’d heard getting
tossed around days before. Not one allegation had led to evidence that
would substantiate a charge of murder. Still, Pike’s list of references
nagged at him. He checked them out and Jacob Stanley was right, there
was nothing unusual about them, but that wasn’t the issue burning a hole
in Harper’s mind. Allison Pike went to a lot of trouble to paint her
relationship with Mrs. McGuire in pretty pastels, so why the need for
references? Harper knew it was inevitable that he’d see Pike again. He’d
insist she explain the possible glitch in her story. She, on the other
hand, would make it a point to serve more wine.
At ten in the morning, Harper was in the forensics lab down in the
basement of police headquarters listening to Carter Graves review his
initial findings.
“Go ahead. Take a look,” Carter said, tossing Catherine McGuire’s high
blood pressure medicine bottle at him. “There are no discrepancies in
the dose she was given. Based on the date it was prescribed and
recommended dose, there should be ten pills left in the bottle and ...
there are.”
“What else was she taking?” Harper asked.
“Aside from the high blood pressure, she didn’t have any major
illnesses. She was taking a daily dose of vitamins, minerals, calcium
and a pain killer.”
“What kind of pain meds?”
“Over the counter Ibuprofen for arthritis. Hope I’m in her shape when
I’m eighty-three. Anyway, no discrepancies there either.” Carter glanced
at several sealed evidence containers on a nearby table. “Luminol showed
no sign of blood anywhere at the scene—not on the bed, nightstand,
walls, floor, bathroom—none. I took dust samples from her room and
vacuumed the bedroom floor. I’ll let you know if I find anything worth
looking into.”
Harper was beginning to think this was a murder that didn’t happen. A
body and accusations.
“If she was murdered,” Carter said, “the killer didn’t mess with her
pills.”
“What about the phone records?”
“One of my techs just got them back. He checked the calls made from the
son’s and daughter’s homes. They each phoned Mrs. McGuire a couple of
times a week since October. No way to know if they actually spoke with
their mother, but at least they weren’t lying about making the calls.”
“October, huh?”
“Yeah, why? Does it mean something?”
“Allison Pike claimed that Clinton and Evelyn only called when they
needed money. Do you suppose mom turned her kids down one too many times
and pissed them off?” Harper frowned at the thought. “I take it back.
Plotting to kill would be too much trouble for them. If you ask me,
they’re all nuts, the old lady died in her sleep, and we just wasted
taxpayers’ money.”
* * *
Four weeks since
Catherine McGuire passed away and the only abnormality Jack Fowler noted
in his autopsy report was slightly raised elevations of blood pressure
medication in her system and minor abrasions in her intestines. He found
nothing else to prove that her death was due to anything other than
natural causes. With the case closed, Harper moved on to the next
homicide on the roster. Clinton and his wife moved into Catherine’s home
and that was the last he heard of the McGuires until an hour ago. A
million thoughts ran through Harper’s mind as he listened to the voice
mail message left by the family’s housekeeper, Nelly Blount.
The mansion was a quarter mile away when the sun decided to show after
five days of sub-zero temperatures. But relentless winds continued to
blow and shaped the soft drifts of snow into waves across the open
fields on either side of the road.
The housekeeper answered the door on the second ring and except for a
quick glance over a shoulder she fixed her eyes on his.
“This way, Detective.”
Harper followed her down the main hall to the back of the house and into
the kitchen. Stainless steel appliances were tucked in among spotless
blue granite countertops that stretched into an L-shaped formation. On
the back wall of the room was a span of large windows and patio doors
that led to the terrace now under a foot of snow. Harper sat at one end
of the kitchen table and watched as Nelly served him a steaming cup of
coffee.
“Twenty-seven years. That’s a long time to work for one family; not the
easiest bunch to care for either, you know.” Nelly nodded as if to
emphasize her amazing ability to survive the McGuire ordeal. “Clinton
and Eve were unruly as children now they’re out of control adults.
Without their mother at the helm, who knows what they’ll do next.”
“About what?”
“This house, me, everything. Oh, I know, Clinton moved in, but there are
no guarantees. Obviously, Mrs. McGuire didn’t make any provisions for me
in her will so--”
“I’m sorry.” Harper trusted Nelly hadn’t dragged him here to discuss the
McGuire’s bleak prospect of a future and her financial misfortune. “I
read in the paper the court denied the McGuire’s request to contest it.”
“Such a scandal, but they brought it upon themselves. They’ll have to
sell this house, you know. I should look for other arrangements I
suppose, but at my age ...” Nelly mindlessly stirred her coffee several
times before resting the spoon on her napkin and taking a sip. “At least
Allison came out on top. Goodness knows she deserves compensation for
all she had to put up from the ungrateful brutes. In fact, I heard she’s
moving to St. Tropez.”
“France?” The image of her that evening in her home, sitting across from
him with the fire casting a glow on her face invaded his thoughts with
uncanny clarity. He had suspected Allison Pike just as he had the
others. That was his job, but as evidence diminished and leads went
cold, it became clear that Allison had been caught in the middle of an
ugly family feud and was innocent of any wrong doing. He’d talked with
her several times since, and although he had kept a professional
distance, Allison had slowly haunted his thoughts. “When is she
leaving?”
“Today. Her flight leaves at five.”
He glanced at his watch. It was ten after two. He quickly dismissed any
thoughts of regret. “Mrs. Blount, when you called, you said you had
something to show me.”
“Yes, I’m so ashamed. I haven’t been able to stop going over every
minute of that day in my mind. The thing is, Mrs. McGuire was perfectly
fine in the morning. She had been up and around, I should have—”
“What?”
“That week Allison informed me that Mrs. McGuire requested to take all
her meals in her room. I never questioned Mrs. McGuire’s request and did
as I was instructed to do.”
“Did you question Allison?”
“Why should I have?” she asked as she twisted her napkin. “She and I
always got along. After all, we were both in Mrs. McGuire’s employ. Yes,
the request seemed strange to me but it wasn't the first odd thing Mrs.
McGuired had asked for in my years here. If you want to know the truth,
I was glad to have someone help out a bit for a change. No more running
up and down the stairs every time Mrs. McGuire yelled for something.
Hours before she died, Allison stepped out of the house for a bit."
"Where did she go?"
"I don't know,
but when she returned, she went straight upstairs to her private own
room. Not long after that, she was busy fetching the meal I had prepared
for Mrs. McGuire. No, Detective, Allison took over much of Mrs.
McGuire’s care which was just fine with me.”
Harper lowered his glance to the napkin Mrs. Blount had managed to shred
into thirds. “What’s bothering you?”
Nelly paused for a moment. “Two days before she died, Mrs. McGuire got
it into her head that she wanted a large bouquet of tulips in her room.
I couldn't be sure, but is sounded as if she and Allison were disputing
something. Their voices carried down here to the main floor. A minute
later, Alli ran out the front door. I assumed it was to buy the tulips.
I then went upstairs to tidy Mrs. McGuire’s suite and noticed she was
standing at the bedroom window that overlooks the driveway. After a
moment, Mrs. McGuire handed me this.” Nelly smoothed the creased corners
of the sealed envelope she took from her pocket. “I feel horrible about
it. I was supposed to mail it for her. Instead, I slipped the envelope
into the pocket of this cardigan while I finished with her room. After
that, I got busy with other things and completely forgot about it until
today when I put the sweater on again. I thought it would raise
suspicion to mail it after her death. That's why I called you.”
Harper rubbed a thumb over the surface and felt three small, round, hard
objects inside the envelope addressed in Catherine McGuire’s handwriting
to her attorney Jacob Stanley. He ripped it open, took out the note
leaving the three items inside. He read it, returned the page to the
envelope then slipped it into his breast pocket. “Thank you, Mrs.
Blount.”
“Well, what did she write in the note? Is it important?”
“You did the right thing in calling me. I’ll take care of it.” Harper
drained the last of his coffee and glanced out toward the terrace as he
slipped on his coat. “Did you say, tulips?”
“Yes, why?”
“They’re out of season. No shop would have them in stock this time of
year.”
“I know.” Nelly rolled her eyes. “All I can say is, Mrs. McGuire was a
bit eccentric at times and when she got into one of her moods, you
didn’t ask why.” Nelly raised a hand to her lips and frowned. “If you
ask me though, she didn’t want flowers at all.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Allison bought her two dozen beautiful red roses instead, but Mrs.
McGuire didn’t react to them one way or another. I suppose the reason
the whole incident stayed with me is because Mrs. McGuire was never one
to have fresh cut flowers around. Sometimes she was a horrible person to
please.”
* * *
Harper was back in his car, siren on,
racing toward town and waiting for the medical examiner to answer his
phone.
“Jack, it’s me,” Harper said. “I have new evidence in the Catherine
McGuire case. I need some answers and fast.”
“Shoot.”
“Why would Mrs. McGuire write to her attorney about grapefruit seeds?”
Harper recognized the silence on the other end of the line and knew he
hit on something that had rendered the medical examiner speechless.
“Jack, are you with me?”
“Jesus, Harp. Damn, it makes perfect sense now.”
* * *
Three o’clock
and the only things on Harper’s mind were Allison Pike and her five
o’clock flight to France. He nosed his Jeep into the driveway behind her
BMW then ran to knock on her door. “Allison. It’s Sam Harper.” He waited
a second or two then knocked again. This time, he hammered the door with
his fist. “Come on, Allison, open up!”
Allison cracked open the door. The surprise in her eyes faded into
contempt as she motioned for him to come in.
"Harper, this isn’t a good time.”
“Is it ever? We need to talk.” He stepped into the living room and
glanced at the five pieces of luggage on floor. “Going somewhere?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. I’m really in a hurry. My flight—”
“This won’t take long. Why don't you sit down?"
"I'd rather not."
"All right. There's a small detail about the case that's been nagging at
me from the very beginning.”
“I thought we were done with it?”
“You told me you met Catherine McGuire at an art gallery and it was only
after you two became friends that she hired you as her assistant.”
“That’s right, what of it?”
“Throughout the investigation I heard comments about Mrs. McGuire’s
strong character. She was a woman who knew her mind—followed her own
instincts, never took anyone’s word for anything.”
“That pretty much sums her up.”
“Then why did you give her a list of references?”
“Excuse me?” Allison feigned a smile but couldn’t disguise the
uneasiness that had flashed across her face. “What difference does it
make now?”
“If she trusted you as a friend why did she need references? Wouldn’t
she have known if you were right for the job?”
“She asked for them.” Allison took a step back.
“I don’t think so. No more than it was her idea to cut the family out of
her will. What kind of game were you playing, Alli?”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Rarely.”
“Check the records, Detective. The case was closed two weeks ago. You’ve
had your fun, now leave.”
“No one’s going anywhere except for your art gallery pal. He’s at police
headquarters right now having a chat with my partner. I heard he’s
cooperating and talking about the scam you two had going.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Sure about that?” he asked. “Your friend was the one with connections,
wasn’t he? He knew the widows who frequently visited the gallery and
introduced you to them one by one. Am I close?”
“Hardly.”
“You gained their trust, stole them blind, and split the sum with your
pal. By the way, does he know you’re leaving town with the McGuire
fortune?”
“Talk all you want, Harper. I’m not listening to this nonsense.” A
nervous laugh deceived her attempt to blow him off.
“The problem is, you found out too late that Catherine McGuire was as
shrewd as you are. It wasn’t enough that she was paying you well, you
got greedy. That's when you convinced her the family didn’t care and
talked her into cutting them out of the will.”
“No. It wasn’t like that. I had no idea that—”
“How exactly was it then? Jacob Stanley knew her a hell of a lot longer
than you and your story doesn't match his. According to Stanley, Mrs.
McGuire knew what her children were like but loved them
unconditionally."
She took another step back without taking him out of her sight.
"I’m thinking that somewhere along the way she must have realized you
couldn’t be trusted," he said. "What’d you do, let it slip that it was
you who wouldn’t let the McGuires get near to her?”
“They didn’t care about her.”
“I imagine Catherine threatened to report you. Is that what turned
things around? The fact that her resistance didn’t quite fit into your
plans so you decided it was time to end things.”
“No. It’s not true.” Allison’s eyes widen as she turned her head to the
sound of siren approaching her home. “I couldn’t. I never—”
“Mrs. McGuire wasn’t bedridden, so why did you tell the housekeeper that
Catherine wanted her meals taken to her room?”
“She ordered it.”
“I'm willing to bet Catherine McGuire was held prisoner in her own home
to buy you some time knowing that Nelly would never question your
authority.”
“I’m calling my attorney.”
“In your own words, your interests are varied. Diverse enough to know
that traces of poisons can be found in an autopsy. Was that an added
insurance clause in the will in case you had to resort to it?” Harper
reached for the handcuffs. “But you didn’t need it because you knew
grapefruit consumed in any form would conflict with Catherine’s high
blood pressure medication. It elevated the amount of medication in her
system and consequently lowered her blood pressure to dangerous levels
without a trace of what caused it. The question is, how did you do it?
Mixed it in with her other juices to disguise the taste? Hell you could
have bought extract and gotten away with it. But in your rush, you got
sloppy. All you wanted to do was make certain Mrs. McGuire got it down
before she realized that she had taken it.”
As Harper slipped the handcuffs over her wrists and read Allison her
rights, the scent of her perfume sickened him as much as the thought of
how easily he could have fallen for her.
“You can’t prove any of this.” Hate mixed with tears welled in her eyes.
“Want to know what Catherine McGuire did the day she sent you off on a
wild goose chase after tulips?”
“I couldn’t care less.”
“You should,” he said. “She was desperate to get you out of the house.
She left two phone messages for her attorney. When he didn’t answer
right away, she wrote him a letter.” Harper reached into his coat pocket
and shook the envelope Nelly Blount had given to him the hour before.
“This one. Accusing you of her murder. Catherine McGuire had you pegged,
Allison, and it’s all right here dated, signed and sealed in her
handwriting.”
“For God’s sakes, if she felt threatened, why didn’t she call the
police? See, she didn’t know what she was doing. Why do you think she
needed a guardian? Her own children wanted nothing to do with her. She
needed me--me!”
Harper tipped the content of the envelope onto the palm of his hand and
let Allison see the three grapefruit seeds Catherine had saved with the
intent of sending them to Jacob Stanley. “You must have been in a hell
of a hurry to not strain the seeds."
She didn't respond.
"Wealth doesn’t diminish the insecurity brought on by age. She was
scared to death of you—you—the only person she accuses in her note. Last
thing she wrote is, ‘If anything happens to me, give the seeds to my
doctor, he’ll know.’”
"Listen to you," she said. "You're making this up as you go. That
doesn't prove a thing. I’ll fight this, you know.”
He took her by the arm and handed her to the uniformed officers.
"Harper? Do you hear me?"
“Your greed blurred that fine line between right and wrong, Alli. How
many more of these cases am I going to find in your past?”
Again, she didn’t respond. Why would she? Harper could see the
calculated cold indifference in her eyes. There was nothing more to say.
The End